A Peek Behind the Flash
by Riffir
Summary: "If Dean had known that 'The Adventures of Rocky and Bullwinkle' would somehow lead to a philosophical debate of human existence, he would have just shoved both of them out into the car and attempted to achieve premature deafness via Metallica." My take on the End!Verse. Set way before the events of Ep. 5.04.


It's early, not even seven, and Dean flips lazily through the television stations. All hope for sleep is long gone, chased off by the quiet echo of lonely hotel rooms. He'd grown up falling asleep to the sounds of creaking beds and arguments through thin walls, tempered by the energetic chatter of his brother and scent of gun smoke and leather from their father. Without anyone to provide any back up… Dean chases the thought away and flips to another channel. He's in the middle of fucking nowhere and he knows he should just get on the road again. It's not like he's never traveled alone before, after all. But, unlike that stretch of four years when Dad was off on one one hunt, Dean on another, Sam safe in normal, apple pie life…

Now, the highway just seems so long.

He jabs the up button again, then tosses the remote in disgust. It bounces off the flat pillows onto the thinly carpeted floor with a clatter that seems impossibly loud for pieces of plastic against polyester. Dean tips his head back, grinds the heels of his hands into his eye sockets and wishes more than anything that he could just erase the past few years. Fuck angels, fuck Michael and the apocalypse, fuck Sa…

A quiet flutter behind him draws his mind gratefully away from that dead end. "I do not think that is a prudent way to watch television," Cas says quietly. Dean doesn't have to look to know that Mr. Social Situation, Extraordinaire, is right behind his head, so close that Dean can feel the heat radiating off his angelically high-jacked body.

Dean lets his hands fall free and stares up at the scruffy underside of Cas' chin. The top of his head brushes against khaki and cotton. "There's nothing on," Dean answers finally. He waves aside Cas's obvious confusion— there are images right there, vying for attention amid the cereal and toy commercials that make up early morning television— and slides down on the couch, hips balanced precariously against the edge, head safely encased in fabric covered Dacron and goose down.

The LED numbers from the bedside clock ticked over into seven. On cue, a bright fanfare blasted out of the television, accompanied by 1960's style bright colors and animations, and once again, Dean has to chase off the image of Sam, this time seven and bouncing in time with the music as Rocky introduces the cartoon. Kid had always loved his TV. He'd always shriek for Dean to come join him, ask non-stop questions about the show; was Rocky a boy or a girl, why didn't they ever travel to Moosylvania, do you think they were circus performers ever?

Dean glances back over the top of the couch at Cas and isn't too surprised to see him squinting at the television, head tilted in concentration, as if the answers to life's most obscure questions were hidden away in the grotesque renderings of cartoon fantasy.

"What, you don't know about 'Moose and Squirrel'?" Dean tries his best Russian accent. Instead, it comes out strongly Italian. He can practically hear Sam chortle "It's-a me, Mario" in the world's most cliché accent, at the same time Cas peers almost nearsightedly at the television as he announces his disbelief that either of these two abominations could possibly be based upon real animals.

"Dude, just sit down and watch," Dean snaps, good humor scattered by the ghost of a past long gone. Cas's gaze flickers over to him, then back to the television before he steps gracelessly around the couch and sinks down, sitting on the edge of the cushion like he expects Dean to order him off it. Dean rolls his eyes, reaches down for another beer and pops the cap off with the edge of the coffee table. He hands it over to Cas, who wraps his hand around the neck like it's a sword, and reaches for his own nearly forgotten and uncomfortably warm bottle, hidden around the corner of the low-slung couch.

Cas leans back slowly, shoulders tucking into the back of the couch, beer held tightly against the jut of his knee. Despite what should have been a relaxing position, he looked stiff, uneasy. Out of place.

And like that time long ago, it doesn't take long before the questions start. Only instead of the questions of innocence and youth, this time it's the query of the outcast. Despite being burdened with a millennium of celestial knowledge, Cas isn't so great at putting two and two together and coming up with the simple basics of everyday human life. So, naturally, the first thing out of his mouth, is a question about where gravity has gone, if a mammal can fly straight up in such a manner.

"It's a cartoon, Cas. Gravity doesn't matter in cartoons." For a moment, Dean thinks that he might just get away with such a blanket statement. Anything can happen in cartoons. Realistic renderings of the world to weird, stick-figure animations exist. Acme holes and people with yellow skin.

But this is Cas, who falls silent for all of thirty-two seconds before he lurches forward, snapping out of forced relaxation to his usual hunch to glare at the television. "What's that on his head?"

It's such a dramatic movement that it takes Dean a moment to process exactly what they're talking about. "It's a flying cap, man. You know, flying squirrel?" He really doesn't want to explain wordplay to Cas. Root canals sound more entertaining than explaining wordplay.

"…you do know that they don't actually fly?" Dean can hear the incredulity there. He may as well be saying 'well, this is what happens when you give humans permission to name everything.'

Dean sighs. "Yes, Cas. The hairless apes are all aware of the difference between flying and gliding." Well, most of them are, anyway. He still remembers the summer of '91, when Sam had decimated an old kite they'd found in the garbage behind their current motel, sewn it to the sides and underarms of an old t-shirt, and attempted to glide by jumping off the top of the Impala.

Luckily, after plummeting the five feet straight down, all he'd really suffered was a twisted ankle, a bruise on his hip, and a hole in the knee of the only pair of jeans that he currently fit into. Unluckily, Dean hadn't been quick enough to think up a plausible excuse for Dad as to why a pair of size 11 kids shoes had been running all over the top of the car.

Cas' next question chases away the memory of the sting from that rather intense discussion. Soon, Dean's explaining _Fractured Fairy-tales_ and Canadian Mounties, and no, tying a woman to railroad tracks doesn't really make sense but it is pretty evil. Yes, it was pretty lazy to just give up on Snidely Whiplash's character development like that. It's almost entertaining, in a nostalgic, bruise-poking sort of way until Fearless Leader strides onto the screen, and Cas' questions start to get a bit harder to explain.

"So, if this Fearless Leader wants to change things, why does he keep relying on underlings who are obviously incompetent?" Cas nods toward Boris and Natasha.

Dean shrugs. If he'd known that _The Adventures of Rocky and Bullwinkle_ would somehow lead to a philosophical debate of human existence, he would have just shoved both of them out into the car and attempted to achieve premature deafness via Metallica. "Sometimes you have to pick the B-team. If the only one still batting for your team happens to be a short guy with a man-crush in a trench coat, you take him, even if he's not the shiniest star in the sky."

Cas nods, slowly. "I understand." He twirls his empty beer bottle between lax fingers, a small smile hidden amongst the scruff that peppered his chin. "Fearless Leader has probably already lost all of his strong soldiers, and even though he must rely upon the unimpressive warriors that he has left, he has still not given up hope for victory."

Naturally, Cas roots for the underdog, even when he's a clearly a villain. Dean sighs and pitches his bottle toward the trashcan. It cracks harshly against the other bottles there, before settling atop of paper and fast-food napkins. "Sounds good, Cas. Gotta throw a wrench in the gears anyway you can."

The credits begin their scroll and he clicks off the television, stands and stretches out the kinks in his back from scrunching up on the couch for so long. Cas rises slowly, still staring at the now blank screen even as his hands drop heavily to his side.

Dean grabs the duffel from the foot of the bed and slings his arm around Cas' shoulders. "Remind me to never show you Loony Toons," he says as they head out the door toward the Impala.

Cas doesn't answer, probably has no idea what he's even referring to, but the soft smile and relaxed posture is all Dean really needs. He can make this work. No matter what hell is going on in the world, no matter where or what Sa… It can all work out. He and Cas can still find a way to shove the Devil back in the box, tell the angels where to get off, maybe even do it before the shit really hits the fan.

And maybe, he can throw enough of a wrench in everyone's plans to do it before it gets any worse.


End file.
